


Lover, You Should’ve Come Over (It’s Not Too Late)

by butteredflame



Series: Did I Do the Right Thing? [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Behavior, Character Development, Dany Does Not Resurrect, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Episode Fix-It: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Fix-It, Forgiveness, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Jon Becomes Strikingly Meek, Letters, Misogyny, Murder, Past Character Death, Politics, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sudden Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, vindication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-09-02 08:36:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butteredflame/pseuds/butteredflame
Summary: After being imprisoned for weeks in King’s Landing for taking Queen Daenerys’s life, Jon begins to understand her loneliness. Once released, he aims to spend his final days preserving her memory, only to find himself out of step with his family, the Six Kingdoms, and even the Known World.Is Jon losing his mind? Or is he finding it?





	1. Let The Unsullied Take Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *in the Black Cells of the Red Keep*

i.

The sheer heat of _Drogon’s_ purple-red-black colored dragonflame had gutted the castle, yet much of the Red Keep remained. Even the black cells, which were forged by the Targaryens for the Crown’s most formidable enemies, were largely untouched. So, after Jon Snow had killed the Queen, that is where they placed him until the time of his verdict.

Over the weeks, he’d kept his wits enough to overhear the guards beyond his door, discussing what came to pass. Through the Great War and the Last War, with Daenerys’s aid, nearly all the Great Houses had remained: Stark, Greyjoy, Tully, Martell. They had convened, for some sort of Great Council, and somehow, Bran had become King of the Six Kingdoms, Lord Paramount and Protector of the Realm.

Unable to make sense of this, Jon’s awareness began to fade, and he soon found himself scratching the cold walls with chipped nails to know he was still alive and that this was real.

Somehow sleep had come last night, but he continued to toss into the morning, so he was alert enough to hear the guard outside shuffle about, before the door was opened and hesitant footsteps followed into his prison cell. Grunting, he pushed himself into a seated position and passed a curious glance at the man who had entered. It was Tyrion Lannister. After just having been released from prison, himself, the lord looked freshly groomed and too cheerful—too comfortable as Lord Hand to yet another king. Jon frowned deeply at his fellow traitor. 

“What do you want?”

“I have come to discuss the terms of justice with you.”

He turned his head away in response.

“Jon, please—”

“_Don’t_ say my name.” He knew what the lord saw with his one blue eye and one green eye. After weeks without a bath, grooming or direct sunlight, Jon did not look well. Tyrion likely thought his rumpled appearance—tangled black curls, crusted eyes, shaking hands—was due to his surroundings, but in fact, his shame was the cause. “And don’t look at me. You will never have that right again. Not after what we’ve done.”

Tyrion exhaled sharply, brimming with impatience. “I have come to talk to you _about_ what we’ve done.”

Jon stared him down derisively. After swallowing thickly, Lord Tyrion slowly turned around and stared at the door. Jon could not even gaze at his golden head, so he turned to the small window on the east wall, watching the light of his torch flicker along the cell as the other man continued.

“Everyone wants your head…for killing Queen Daenerys. Giving you to the Unsullied would start a war. Letting you walk free would start a war. Grey Worm is aware of this, so he has agreed to the terms of justice.”

“Which are?”

As soon as the lord’s sigh rose, Jon knew what he would say. “You shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.”

He glowered. “After all of this, there is still a Night’s Watch? For what reason, Tyrion? The Others are gone. What need do we have for the Wall? The Free Folk have been welcomed into Westeros. What need do we have for the lands beyond it?”

When a response didn’t come, Jon glanced at him, to find that his shoulders were in a tight line. After a long moment, he replied, “The world will always need a home for bastards and broken men.”

Jon was appalled._ If the Night’s Watch remains, then we have truly changed nothing. _Trying to ground himself, he curled his palms along the edge of his wooden bench and dug his chipped nails in. 

“Bastard? Broken? I am much less than that. I am a _queenslayer_. No one will follow me.”

“I doubt the men of the Night’s Watch will care—”

“You are wrong, if you think they won’t. We have changed nothing. Bran let me kill her, seated the throne, and chose _you _to be his Hand.” He brimmed with disgust. “What a fool you are, Tyrion. And I with you, to have listened to you all, to think that any of you could choose. Daenerys was right.”

Tyrion was unsettled. “What do you mean?”

“The Last War is finished, yet our new world will be built on lies. Do not send me to the Night’s Watch. I have no honor. Not anymore. Let the Unsullied take me.”

Tyrion finally turned around, aghast. “You don’t mean that.”

“I murdered the woman I love! I let you lot convince me to do it! And I was wrong!”

“No, no,” he said firmly. “You had a choice, but making it wasn’t supposed to end this way for you.” He met Jon’s eyes, who returned the stare with disgust curling at his lip. “I need you to think about this. Take some time, please. Write down how you feel.”

Tyrion withdrew a folded piece of parchment from below his cloak. Then followed a thin object that could not be considered a writing instrument—for the black smudges it left on his skin. It was clearly something the lord had to smuggle into the prison, and made Jon distrust him further. Although he was well over a dozen feet away, Jon recoiled from his outstretched hand. 

“That isn’t allowed in here.” 

“Take it, Jon.” 

“Do not use my name! Don't look at me!” 

Jon pushed himself to feet and stood on shaky legs. Yet his voice boomed, tinged with a hysteria that he did not hear, only saw reflected in the lord’s wide eyes. Tyrion lowered his gaze, then placed the parchment and pen on the hay-littered stone floor. Jon glared, hard.

“Please, take it,” the lord said softly, regretfully. “I know this is difficult. Find a way to tell us what you mean.” 

“You want to know what I mean?” Jon scoffed so hard it hurt. “I mean that it’s over. Leave me.”

“Please, you must understand. Sansa and Arya… No one is happy, but Bran _cannot_ give you a trial. It is not your choice to go to the Night’s Watch—” 

“Aye,” Jon scoffed again. “I had the choice to kill Queen Daenerys, yet I cannot choose this.”

He ignored that. “_If _they decide to send you to the Night’s Watch, you will not see them again for a long time, nor me. I am begging you, please write down what you want to say to them. Perhaps it will sway them to take another chance on you.”

Jon had already stopped listening. The hypocrisy and hubris coming from his family and their allies was overwhelming to his weakened heart. He returned to his seat and gazed at the east wall, into the darkness.

“I will return tomorrow, for the parchment and pen. Then you won’t see me again.”

“I should hope so.”

“I…I’m sorry.”

“No, you aren’t,” Jon whispered. “Not enough.”

A hesitant moment later, Lord Tyrion let himself out, and Jon mused for a long time. He never wanted to speak to his family again. He never wanted to be seen by another soul, for he was now without honor. He didn’t think writing it down would soothe his restlessness, but his awareness was already fading, so he picked up the parchment and pen. He would have to be careful to keep his place. _Harder things have been done. _With that in mind, Jon set to writing.

ii.

_To my brother, Bran and my sisters, Arya and Sansa, _

_You know that I cannot mince words. Now I also struggle to make sense, for my lack of will to live has put me in a fog. Though you don’t understand what has cast my soul down, you should. I pray to the Gods that you will. As you are already aware, the Queen was slain, by my own hand. I was in the vanguard, but Arya got caught in the bedlam. Together we saw what was left of King’s Landing after the dragon torched the city--the ash fell from the sky like snow! You never wanted to accept it, but I loved Queen Daenerys, and though Lord Tyrion may tell you he was afraid of her, to my eyes she was so beautiful before her people and the throne. She was as happy as she could have been, even after we let her lose everything and everyone. But she was without remorse, so I stuck a dagger in her heart, even after she begged for me to rule with her. I did it for you. But I was wrong. Let it be known that Lord Tyrion confided in me, as Lord Varys did in him, their fear of her power to vanquish evil men. They revealed themselves to be like the men they mentioned, while I revealed myself to be nothing good enough for her. Otherwise, she would still be here. Aye, Daenerys returned from exile, yet she was no foreigner to me. She loved me. ME! And I let you lot convince me to kill her, and I am now imprisoned in the black cells, as I should be. I am alone. As are all of you, because no one is faithful or true. Not as much as Daenerys Targaryen was. She knew the love of the Gods, not just their ways. She had people in every city of the Known World. They believed in her because she'd have died for us. And she did. She wanted to love you all, too. But you were determined to distrust her. Brother, sisters, our confidence in the flesh will further lead us into the hell she sought to save us from. It is what we wanted. It is what we deserve. You should be ashamed but you are not, and when you see me you will seek to save me from my mourning, with little regard to the fallen, including my Queen. I should have known how hard your hearts were, but I didn’t, and for that I deserve what will come, too. _

_Do not wait for me. _

_Your brother,_

_Jon Snow_

iii.

When it was finished, Jon was so broken he sobbed himself into another fitful sleep. Sometime later, he woke with a start that had his heart racing. The rush of life was too overwhelming in the darkness, so he closed his palm around the pen and held the pointed end to the other one. The dull pain wasn’t enough. He didn’t want to hurt anymore. He wanted peace. He wanted Daenerys.

He rolled onto his side and sobbed into his free hand. His moaning would not cease. _There is no health in my bones because of my wrongdoings. They have gone over my head. _Like a heavy burden, they were too heavy for him. _Help, _he thought. _Forgive me. Help me. _He was ready to fall, as pain was ever before him. He wanted peace.

So, he raised the pen and searched for the perfect spot to make one, fatal press. He tried wrist, his torso, his thigh, then his neck—

The door was suddenly thrown open, and in came rushing Lord Tyrion with the guard at his heels. The guard wrenched the pen from his hand as the lord snatched the parchment from his bench. He stared at Jon with wide eyes, fear bleeding into the blue and green.

“What if I had not been on my way?”

Jon held his eyes and said nothing.

To the guard, Tyrion said, “Check on him every hour, until I return tomorrow. He must live.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Without a word to Jon or his suffering, Tyrion moved to leave.

Jon cried out, “Where will you send me?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, seeming deeply shaken. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Jon's breath caught in his throat as he sat back, stunned and unsettled at what he had almost done. 

That night, he started humming—some half-remembered Valyrian poem Daenerys often sang when she hadn’t thought he was listening. When he had first heard her, she told him about when she had learned it as a child in Pentos, and when she sang it in the Red Waste, and when she sang it on the Narrow Sea. The song sounded terrible from his lips, but it was all he had, so he did it. In the darkness, with nothing to his name but the spirit pulsing deep within, awe began to stir in his heart.

_We come with nothing and we leave with nothing. _He recalled principle teachings from the Gods of the realms of men. _What do we have that we have not received? _

Daenerys had known this well. A sob rose in his throat at the thought, but he was too tired to cry again, so he pushed it down and laid his head to rest on folded hands. In the darkness, with nothing but a poem clinging to his lips, Jon felt the depth of loneliness that had followed her, even into the halls of Winterfell and Dragonstone, where he was supposed to have protected her from all who would harm her—even though he was the rightful heir and especially because he was.

_This is how she’d felt, _he realized, _yet her faith was made stronger for it until the moment I took her life. _Jon shivered and shook his head to himself. He turned over and gazed at the cell door with tears in his eyes.

After hours of stunned, humbled musing, eventually Jon realized he did not want to die by his own hand. He wanted to die the way the Gods would see fit, because he wanted to honor their will. He wanted to preserve Daenerys’s memory: to battle the half-truths that had already likely spread among the Kingdoms, to let the children know what had happened and who was responsible, to let the world know they chose to preserve their broken systems and deserved what would rise from them. But most importantly, to spread the message that their true treasure was not of the world, but anything that expressed the unwavering love of the Gods, who were beyond it; and in that knowledge, they could find momentary peace.

So, when Tyrion came for him many hours later, Jon was prepared to re-enter the world, not to be part of it, but to wait patiently and with some groaning, for relief to find him. The change must have been obvious, for the lord’s shock was apparent, and seemed to further remove Jon from his favor. Jon didn’t mind, because he did not want it. Silently, he followed the lord and the guard into the hall of the last level, but he was surprised to hear the guard speak to him once they reached halfway to the ground floor.

“You are wrong for what you have done, Queenslayer.” 

Jon did not know where he was going, so he said nothing. 

“Yet I will miss you,” the man continued. “Your singing was strange, but I am…happy that you are not dead.”

Tyrion thinned his lips but did not interrupt. 

“Why is that?” Jon asked.

“Because, my lord, you should have been my King.”

Jon glowered but considered the guard for a moment. “No one should be King. We are all broken.”

He raised a brow. “Where is our hope, then?”

“In the Gods. And in the woman Lord Tyrion and I, and many others, betrayed.”

He was confounded. “They are beyond our reach, my lord.”

“No. They are not.”

He did not respond for a long moment—long enough that Lord Tyrion spoke up, to both of their surprise.

“He is telling you to pray.”

“And to _seek forgiveness_,” Jon stressed.

But Tyrion ignored him. “That’s enough, now. No more talking, Sten. We need to hurry.”

When the light started to appear, spilling below the closed doors of window-paned cells, where the highborn were held, Jon’s eyes struggled to adjust. Soon, they exited the cells into the outside, and Jon was equally blinded by the light and the scent of fresh air. In the long weeks that had passed sine Daenerys had torched King’s Landing, the ash had finally settled and rebuilding efforts had begun. The Red Keep was surprisingly busy. The sight did not soothe his soul.

They exited through the shelled north gate and entered the barbican, where memories of Daenerys’s cheering armies rose like the early Spring breeze. He inhaled deeply, then stopped altogether when two Northern bannermen joined their small party. 

“Where are we going?” he asked the lord.

Eventually, he leveled Jon with his gaze.

“We are going to the Dragon Pit. To see your brother and sisters.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, dolls. I know it was tough. Working with canon is pretty impossible, these days. But the hope here is for Jon to find redemption by the time he dies. 
> 
> Stay tuned, I’ll upload the next chapter this time next week! <3
> 
> EDIT: Fic is inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HxfE6PJmGS8) song of the same title by Jeff Buckley.


	2. It’s What I Deserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *from the Dragon Pit, to the Kingsroad*

iv.

King's Landing was in ruins. Between Stannis Baratheon's failed siege at the Battle of the Blackwater, the inception of Cersei Lannister’s cruel rule with the tragedy of the Sept of Baelor, and Queen Daenerys’s zigzagging assault by dragonflame, by the Spring of 308 AC, its three hills had been decimated. Although his wrists were fettered before him as he was escorted down Aegon’s Hill in shame, Jon Snow had reason to be appalled. _After Summerhall burnt down, with less damage than this, the Targaryens were humble enough to leave the castle uninhabited. _Most of the capital's half million denizens were gone, including many of the highborn of the Crownlands whose seats were in the city. From what he had seen from the Red Keep, even resilient Flea Bottom at the south end of Rhaenys’s Hill had been laid to waste by Daenerys’s attention. Yet those left alive had remained. For what reason, Jon did not know. 

_Who is Bran to rebuild a ruined city he has no ties to? _The gesture seemed cold, and disturbed him deeply.

They took the King's Way north to the central square. Once they reached the Street of the Sisters and turned east toward Rhaenys’s Hill, upon which stood the dilapidated Dragon Pit hidden below a century of overgrowth, Jon began to lose his breath and fell behind the men. They started to shove him, and it made him irritable, but Tyrion allowed them to slow down, and it helped. He did not know he could do this. Especially if Grey Worm would be there.

Jon did not look the same, nor did he feel the same, nor was he the same. Lord Tyrion could not stop talking about this. He even tried to caution him to hold his tongue before King Bran, but Jon told him to shut up. To his surprise, it worked. 

He steeled himself as they took the last bend—and then the beaten path opened up to the Dragon Pit. The sight momentarily left Jon dazed with memories stirring in his thoughts. He could almost feel Daenerys there.

He was already weeping when they ascended the restructured wooden stage (courtesy of Cersei’s reign) upon which his brother and sisters were seated below a tent staked at the north end. 

Blinking the tears away, Jon halted, forcing Tyrion to stop with him.

“My ladies,” Tyrion greeted. “My lords.”

Jon’s brow ticked. Clad in the black boil of armor of the Unsullied and lined in the silver fatigue of a Ghiscari general, Grey Worm ascended the stage at the east end. He’d left his helmet and his men aside, but his stare was hard and his frown was grim as he approached Jon and Tyrion with his hands behind his back. His restraint wasn’t enough to heal Jon’s soul. Grief sent him to his knees, and he murmured pleas in the back of his throat, eyes flitting between the other man’s and the stage floor as he opened his filthy hands to him. 

“You have to understand, Grey Worm. You have to see. Please.”

The air was tense—this was against decorum—but no one interrupted. After a long moment he said, “I see that _you _do, Snow.”

“Aye, I know what I have done. To Daenerys and to us all.”

“To us all,” he mused, frowning deeply. “Yes, you are right. I could not talk to you before, because I would have killed you. I did not want start another war. But now—” His eyes swept to his family and back to Jon’s—“We are all lost without Queen Daenerys.” His eyes began to water. “We have nothing. Jon Snow, you took everything.”

Jon dipped his head, shamed.

“They have started to call you Queenslayer.”

The accusation rang clearly. _All of this has come to nothing, because of you. _Jon didn’t see the tears in the other man's eyes, but he heard them.

“_I should have killed you when I had the chance_.”

Suddenly there was a shuffle as someone moved to their feet. Arya already had her hand on Catspaw, but Sansa was quick enough to move before her—a gesture of trust between his estranged family that would have brought a smile to Jon's lips, because of the way they grew up and the fallout of Robb's campaign and the obstacles now before them.

_I did it for you, _he thought, meeting Arya’s steel Stark eyes. _And I was wrong._

“That is _enough_,” she boomed, turning her eyes on Grey Worm. “My lord, you need to step away from my brother right now. And we need to start this damned meeting in proper fashion, _right now._”

“You two as well,” Bran directs to Arya, training his unusually distant Stark eyes hard on hers. While everyone else started, she considered him, and then with a sort of finite strength that Jon only now noticed after the Winter wars, she returned Sansa to her seat, whose ire was apparent.

With a kind of integrity that only he had, Grey Worm spat, “You must bathe, soon, Snow. You are filthy.”

Jon quickly returned, “Indeed. I have no honor. Not anymore.”

He considered Jon with the weight of a man who had seen so much. “No,” he agreed, a shout carried on the breeze, “you don’t.” 

Then Grey Worm, Tyrion and the guards left Jon to join the Starks below the tent. He was merely a prisoner for his hardened family to look upon. He would not let them send him off to the Wall, as if so much fire and blood and betrayal had meant nothing. As if he had nothing to atone for. His sisters returned his glares on reflex, perturbed frowns bearing their confusion. Bran, worst of all, simply did not seem to understand why everyone was so tense.

“Jon,” he called, “after all that has happened, don’t you think we can avoid further bloodshed if you join the Night’s Watch?”

“No,” he snapped from behind his teeth. “It will not work. I took Queen Daenerys's life, brother, and that is because you let it happen.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you are a greenseer, _the _Three-Eyed Raven, who sees everything. And now you seat the throne.”

That caught the others’ attention. They glanced at each other curiously; all except Tyrion, that is. And that is how Jon knew it was the other lord's idea to nominate his little brother. Jon moved to his feet. His chains sang with his slow approach.

“You stoked everyone’s fears when you revealed my parentage, you gave them cause to undermine the Queen, and when she was vulnerable after we let her lose _everything_, you let me kill her.” 

He was close enough to smell the soap in Bran's chestnut hair. Even as he held Jon's eyes, Jon could tell that he was not there. Bran was gone. 

"Queen Daenerys wanted to break the wheel," said the King, "when in fact, she was the wheel." 

"She was _not_."

"She was merciless. I did what I had do to."

"No one asked you to. They asked _me_. Yet you say you were waiting for the lords of the Great Houses to recognize you as King. How is that so, if you had not plotted, Bran? You did this. We helped you." 

"Be careful, Jon. That's treason." 

Tyrion nodded in full agreement with Arya. Jon frowned at her, because she'd never been one to caution herself or others around the laws of the land. Sansa's eyes were cold, as well. They loved Jon, but they had no shame, so they did not understand. 

Bran asked, "Do you want the Iron Throne, Jon?" 

"No. I never did. I never will." 

"Yet you will not go to the Night's Watch. What do you want?" 

"I want to right my wrongs," he said, but they frowned doubtfully as if this made no sense. "Sending me to the Wall will not do that." 

"What will, then?" 

His eyes flitted to Grey Worm, who watched with his arms crossed before him, but Jon held his tongue. When he didn't reply, Bran nodded to Sansa. Bristling, she removed a parchment from within her fur-lined sleeve and unrolled it. At the sight of the smudges on the edges of the roll, Jon reared back on his heels. Her lips thinned as she began reading off lines from his letter. 

"_**Though you don't understand what has cast my soul down, you should**_." 

She paused, bereaved Tully-blue eyes meeting his. "Lord Tyrion informed us about yesterday. You tried to kill yourself, Jon.You are not well." 

"I did," he agreed stiffly, "and no, I am not. After what I've done, I shouldn't be well in the least." 

Unfortunately, he did not yet see how his words would be used against him. Arya shifted, Bran frowned deeply, and Tyrion seemed to be as shaken as he had yesterday. Grey Worm did not seem to know about this letter. Silently, he pleaded with the other man to understand, but Jon could not read him. As a harsh wind blew into the Dragon Pit, Sansa swallowed thickly and returned to the parchment. 

"_**You never wanted to accept it, but I loved Queen Daenerys, and though Lord Tyrion may tell you he was afraid of her, to my eyes she was so beautiful before the throne and her people**._" She trailed off and soon continued. "_**She was happy, even after we let her lose everything and everyone. But she was without remorse, so I stuck a dagger in her heart, even after she begged for me to rule with her. **__**I did it for you."**_

Grey Worm started. Arya had gotten to her feet again and started pacing. Clutching the parchment, now, Sansa skipped to the end of the letter. 

"_**Aye, Daenerys returned from exile, yet she was no foreigner to me. She loved me. And I let you lot convince me to kill her, and I am now imprisoned in the Black Cells, as I should be." **_

That is when Grey Worm suddenly stormed off the stage. Jon was afraid that he would leave. But he sent his men off, perhaps so they would not overhear what would come to pass. He returned swiftly, with tears in his eyes, as Sansa continued. 

"_**I am alone. As are all of you, because no one is faithful or true...**_" Apparently having memorized the rest, she met Jon's eyes with quiet fury. "_**She wanted to love you all, too. But you were determined to distrust her. Brother, sisters, our confidence in the flesh will further lead us into the hell she sought to save us from. It is what we wanted. It is what we deserve. You should be ashamed but you are not, and when you see me you will seek to save me from my mourning, with little regard to the fallen, including my Queen." **_

Grey Worm cleared his throat roughly and turned his back to the Starks and Lord Tyrion. Jon had no right to see his pain, so he cast his eyes down to the stage floor. 

_**"I should have known how hard your hearts were, but I didn't, and for that I deserve what will come, too,"**_ Arya finished sharply. "_**Do not wait for me**_**.**" 

Jon nodded weakly. He could not stand anymore, so he returned to his knees and braced himself on his fettered hands. The gesture felt better to his soul, that he humble himself in this way. After all, when the Queen's enemies and allies had begun to whisper among themselves to strengthen his claim to the throne--and when they then whispered in Jon's ear their fear of her sovereignty--he had lost all sense. Right and wrong melded together, while love and duty had begun to quarrel. _You have a choice, _Lord Tyrion had told him. _Your sisters will not be loyal to the Queen. Protect them from her wrath_. Finally out of choices, Jon prayed to the Gods for their will to be done. 

No one spoke for long, long moments. They let him weep like the wretch he was. But still, they did not understand. Jon needed them to understand. 

"King Bran cannot bear children," he said. "But did you all forget that he will outlive us all?" 

No one replied. Not even Bran. It seemed they did not care. 

"Jon," Sansa began, after exchanging a glance with Bran, "We wanted to see you since you were imprisoned, and now we have. You are not well, brother. You are not fit to rejoin the Night's Watch."

Bran finished, "You will return to Winterfell." 

Time seemed to stop with the slowing of Jon’s withered heart, sudden terror wrenching his body into stillness.

"No! That is no better! If you must--" There was only one place he could see himself being redeemed. "Please, send me to Dragonstone." 

"I cannot. Dragonstone is the seat of the heir apparent to House Baratheon. If we were to send you there...it would start a war, Jon. That is the only thing we want to avoid." 

Jon was doubtful of Bran’s motives. Likewise, Gendry would do nothing to preserve Daenerys's memory and in that, he would shame her and the Targaryens of the past, as his lord father Robert had. Jon shook his head to himself weakly, unable to find a way out, to let the truth live. 

"Gendry hasn't even wed yet," he argued, trying one last time. 

"He will, soon," Arya supplied, with an uncharacteristic primness that also claimed Sansa's attention. Jon deflated further. But Grey Worm was still present. He had turned to face them again--to watch this terrible spectacle. Jon needed his help. 

"Let the Unsullied take me, then. It is what I truly want," he told Bran, then turned to Grey Worm. "It is what I deserve." 

"No!" Arya cried. Tears were streaming down her face and within a moment, she dashed to Jon's side and pushed her fingers into his hair--a gesture she had often made when they were children.

"I have to atone for what I've done, Arya. Please." 

"_No!_" 

Sansa shook her head in disbelief. Grey Worm frowned thoughtfully. 

"Arya is right," Bran finished. "I can't let you do that." 

"You would punish me further, then? You would have my soul perish without end, like yours!" He looked around the quiet, cavernous dome building. "Is anyone else here? Shall I shame myself further, in front of any other lords?"

"Jon, _please,_"Arya sobbed. 

But he could not stop. Grey Worm finally stepped forward. Arya was already on her feet with Catspaw drawn. A short distance away, his men readied themselves for a fight. 

"Lady Stark," he told her, "I will not harm him. I want to take him. I want to release him from his pain--and release myself from mine--but I cannot." He sighed deeply. "King Bran has already spoken, Snow." 

"No, no..." Jon murmured hysterically, watching him exit the stage. "Where will the Unsullied go?" 

"We do not know, yet. Perhaps we will sail to Naath to honor Missandei. Perhaps we will stay in Westeros to honor the Queen. I cannot look at you Starks anymore. Goodbye, Jon Snow." 

"Grey Worm, wait! What will you do?"

"I will remember Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. That is all." 

Then he disappeared around the bend, where he'd stowed his men. Arya approached Jon slowly. The breath was taken out of him, and once again, he felt his wrongdoings sweep over his head like a heavy burden. He fell onto his back, crying as low sobs wracked his chest and rose up his throat. Arya could not stand to see him like this. But she could not help. 

"You are free now, Jon," said Bran. The guard from the Black Cells came forth and unlocked his shackles, as Jon, unknown to the world, buried his face into the wooden floor. 

"He is _not _free," Arya returned. "He will never be free again." She gazed over their older brother sadly. "If he is going home to Winterfell, I will go with him." 

"Arya..." said Sansa. "Just last month you were saying you wanted to sail west." 

"Well, it can wait! Jon needs us." 

She huffed. "Bran needs me." 

"What for?" she scoffed. 

"All of the highborn in the Crownlands had seats in the capital. Queen Daenerys killed most of them. He has a small council, but Bran needs help packing the royal court." 

"Stay then!" she snapped impatiently, and returned to Jon again, who was rolling his forehead along the floor, full of dread and begging for relief. For he would see all they wrought as they rode six thousand leagues up the Kingsroad to Winterfell. He prayed that the Gods send him their strength. "He is not well at all! He needs my help!" 

"Then give it to him," Bran returned. "You may feel better soon, Jon. Arya will help you back to the Red Keep, where you will freshen up. If the weather holds, in two days you will take a small ship to White Harbor, where you will then ride to Winterfell." 

"You will have to take over for me, while I am here," Sansa told Arya. "Can you do that, Lady Stark?" 

"Perhaps!" she snapped with a roll of her eyes. But Jon had the rest of her attention. She tugged on his arms, which he had braced against the floor again, and drew him upward to a seated position. Jon held his head in his hands. "Jon, please! It's over now." 

"It isn't," he reasoned. “Understand me, sister. I cannot have a life after this. I am dead to the world and want no part of it. But the Gods are good. Their will be done." 

His conviction was but a flicker, as he was weak down to his bones, but his worship might as well have been thunderous, given that Bran flinched like it was a curse and called the guard to remove Jon from the stage. 

The guard forced Jon onto his feet, turned him toward the stairs, and shoved him forward. Now that Jon was released, he was able to defend himself from Sten and gave a well-placed shove, that gave the man pause. Jon shook his head at him as Arya escorted him. _You do not know what is to be dead to the world, then. _Bran looked on, unrepentant. Sansa had tears in her eyes. While Tyrion watched with haunted eyes, yet he deigned to give Jon a nod. Jon rolled his eyes, and Arya gave her brother a small, bewildered smile, to which he frowned. 

That is why he was surprised when, in a burst of emotion, Sansa apprehended them and swooped Jon into a hug he did not expect. He held onto her as best as he could, because he did love her, but the specter of childhood distrust had returned months ago. She squeezed him once, her Tully-blue eyes sadly acknowledging the rift, and then she sent him on his way. They had nothing left for him there, so he let Arya take him, and finally left his broken heart on the floor of the Dragon Pit. 

v.

They boarded the _Hunter's Bow _at the water's edge of the Red Keep, and sailed off into relatively calm seas. There wasn't a cloud in the sky the first day, nor into the second. By the third, Jon began to grow restless, so he entertained Arya's silent curiosity by finally sitting with her at the prow, just after they and the ship's crew broke their fast. 

"Jon," she greeted with a raised brow. "I see you are feeling better."

"Arya," he huffed. "I appreciate your attentions." 

She gave him a small smile. 

"I wanted to ask you, what does Bran have planned for me? What will I do in Winterfell?"

"Not much." 

"I have no lands, no titles and no honor to what little name I have." He looked at her pointedly. "It will be no life at all." 

"Maybe not, Jon. But Ser Davos will be with you." 

His heart skipped at the thought of his friend and former Hand. Although he'd been crucial to Jon's success, the other man hadn't crossed his mind since they'd mourned _Missandei and Rhaegal_. _Where had he been, when we needed him? _Jon was certain he'd been present at the Great Council and had voted for Bran, and so, he was deeply conflicted.

"When--Why did he return to Winterfell?" 

"I don't know," Arya said. "He rode north after Bran's coronation, without any details as to where he was going or why. Bran managed to find him with those eyes of his, while you were in prison, and he sent a raven. Ser Davos was willing to go with you, wherever it may be, even to the Wall." 

Arya smiled encouragingly. But he was unnerved.

"He is waiting for you at Winterfell. Bran has ordered him to decide what you will do, within reason." Noticing his disquiet, she gazed sympathetically at Jon. "I know that you are worried. But you will find meaning somehow." 

His throat closed up. "I will not, Arya. I killed the woman I love. To me she is a tear that will hang inside of my soul, forever." 

Arya was flummoxed. After reuniting during Winter, they had so little discussed Queen Daenerys as the woman in his life, that now they'd gotten what they wanted, when speaking of her as such, his little sister—_cousin_—didn’t know what to say. Hesitantly, Arya touched his arm, but he turned away and tilted his face to the first drops of the coming storm, not wanting her to say anything.

It was too late.

Daenerys was already dead. 

Once they reached White Harbor and his feet hit dry land, Jon's heart began to weep again. But he remembered Grey Worm's parting words. It gave him strength--more strength than he'd had since his wrongdoings had claimed him, strength he didn't deserve.

He quickly overcame his reticence to be recognized by the commonfolk of the North. No one had been brave enough to say a word, for they were all farmers and crofters, working the land to claim all that House Stark and their vassals would allow. He had no pride in this. So when he, Arya and their small party stopped at inns every other evening, he tore open the parchments he'd gotten from the reading room of _Hunter's Bow _and set to writing. Two weeks into their trek up the Kingsroad, they had finally reached the Wolfswood. The warmer Spring breeze brought crippling memories of their Summer childhood, so he requested that they rest for the hour.

Arya accepted and dismounted her horse a few moments after Jon, who had already sat on the bank of a babbling stream and was removing a parchment from his cloak. The wind picked up and almost took it into the water. But Arya caught it in time. _By the Gods, why is she so quick? It is no wonder she was the one to slay the Night's King. _He still wondered how she found him. But more than anything, he needed to know how and where she had learned to be such a sleuth. 

He held his hand out for it. But the wolf's blood was in her, so she dashed her gaze across the paper before he could take it from her. He braced himself for her response.

_To those who are willing to listen to a queenslayer... Indeed, I am a man of no honor. I could not even get my brother, the King, to release me from my pain. I am dead to the world and now live to the serve the Gods until the end finally comes for me. Like Master Grey Worm and his Unsullied, the few thousand Dothraki who remain in Westeros, and every city's bound souls who rejoiced at her power and mercy, I will never forget Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. Because of her I ask the Gods to keep us all, even those who do no deserve it, like me. We will know what has happened and who is responsible for it, for it is the last thing I must do. _

_But truly, I write these letters to you, Queen Daenerys, that I may honor you in your rest as Drogon has. Like him, I cannot do this without you. I am sorry. I will always love you. _

_I am so sorry. _

_Jon Snow_

Even in the warmer Spring breeze, Jon's injuries tended to seize. That moment was no different, as he clenched his burnt palm around the parchment and struggled to roll it properly. With tears in her eyes, Arya met his. 

"I know that you need time but...entertaining these ideas will only hurt you further, Jon." 

He held his tongue. 

She tried again. "Shall I tell Bran about this?" 

Jon didn't care. Concluding that he would have to get used to his family's doubt and unbelief, without a word, he returned to his horse and rode up ahead. She didn't try to catch him. 

vi.

Although he'd been born with a bastard's name and had found comfort in the shadows as the years bore on, he'd never been one to avoid others. Not after being raised by the quietly bold Eddard Stark. _Not at all._ Jon had expected the same from himself when the merchants of Winter Town stared hard. But he was wrong. A league to the north, the guards at the south gate of the ancient castle were just as bewildered. They would grow used to it. After all, much had changed about Jon Snow, and soon, all of Winterfell would see it too. 

He was conflicted about his aged, wizened former Hand of the King. When the chaotic waters were rising around Jon's head before and after the battle and he couldn't tell what was right or wrong, where had Ser Davos been? Where? 

They found him waiting patiently just after the first bend into the courtyard, right outside of the smithy. His salt and pepper whiskers twitched when they came into view. Perhaps it was a smile. But the knight was not alone. At the flushed and nervous sight of Samwell Tarly—how familiar he was!—Jon was so shocked he couldn't ask Arya if she knew he would be there. He grabbed Sam by the scruff of his neck—he had no maester’s links!—and as soon as some of his rage had seeped from his skin, it wanted out completely. 

"I never wanted this for us," Jon said, disturbed at causing this familiar look of fear on his friend's face. "You shouldn't be here, Sam. You should be in King's Landing with your wife and child, with my brother, where you belong. It is the only place you will be safe." 

"From you?" he whispered, regretful to his bones. 

_"Yes." _

Ser Davos was yelling, trying to convince him that he was free now and should not be doing these things. Arya was crying his name, and joined him in loosening Jon's grip. The sound haunted his ears. He didn't want to cause anymore pain, so he released Sam, and Arya and Ser Davos released him. He blinked the grief from his eyes and took them around the courtyard. Much of the men and women in service to the Lord of Winterfell did their work in this part of the castle. Present for their ex-King's return, they had begun to watch. 

Arya was still reaching for him. Asking for Robb to forgive him for causing her pain, Jon took a step back. And then he fled. 

He did not go to the great hall, where the Stark household and highborn guests convened, for he could not bear to take their gazes yet. He ran across the muddy courtyard and went into the armory--simply because he might not be found there. 

The sun was still high in the sky, yet there was a darkness that swelled over the crenelations and into the main hall. Reminded of the Black Cells, Jon dug his nails into his palms and clung to the wall as he observed the haunts of men. Their banality was more offensive to him than it had ever been before he took the Queen's life. 

Knights, their squires and commonborn guards milled about voraciously. Their lack of will to live upright was now plain enough to give him the sense that being without the urge to die--to be free from the world--wouldn’t always be within reach. 

_Who do they honor? No one._

"Do you need help, Queenslayer?"

Jon started. He met dark eyes, but he did not recognize the man...until he did. He was a landed Northern knight. Therefore, of what counted among men, one of extremely rare sort. He had been one of Jon's men, part of a small party of twenty that had sailed with him and Ser Davos to Dragonstone; he'd even spent weeks mining dragonglass at Jon's side in the island's northern caves. _You were grim and strong, _Jon thought. _A lot like Edd Tollett in that way, may the Gods rest his soul. _Jon was astounded. It was another lifetime ago. 

His eyes smiled. "Do you remember me, my lord?"

"You, yes. But not your name, Ser." 

"That is not important." 

"Then you will not call me a lord, for I am not." 

"I will," he refused. "Your titles have changed so many times, Jon Snow, that I don't know where to begin and I don't think it matters." 

That angered Jon so much he bit his tongue. He grabbed the man, quickly enough to shuffle him out of the main hall and into the foyer. Jon had been the King in the North at one time. Although he had no honor, he would not let this man further defile him in front of the others. Not when there was so little good in any of their souls; not when they and Jon with them were crows always ready to feast. 

"Are you happy to spit on me, then?" he asked, throwing his elbows open to keep the knight from bracing himself against Jon's arms. His eyes were defiant, but genuine. 

"No, my lord."

Jon was stunned. He blinked the wetness from his eyes. 

"I think you abandoned us," the knight continued, "when you bent the knee to the the Dragon Queen, then especially because you killed her. But I think you are as lost as we all are." 

After a long moment, Jon released the man and scrubbed the tears from his face. 

"Aye," he agreed thickly, "I am lost. I am no one, but I have seen that in their mercy, the Gods are Someone. I hope in them." 

The knight paused. "We do not say these things in the North, my lord. These are not the ways of the Old Gods. Do you follow Rh'llor, then?"

To Jon, it didn't matter what name the divine went by. Daenerys hadn't even followed any gods, yet she knew their ways _and _their love. But as he considered the knight's words, it brought hope ever closer to the surface, rolling over him like a fresh breath of air. 

“I know that I need him. So...perhaps, I do.” 

Jon finally stepped away. Finally freed, the knight gave him an uncertain nod and straightened his armor. Then he returned to the main hall of the armory and disappeared under the shadows. Jon exited the foyer and entered the bustling courtyard again, with his regrets heavy on his head. 

_Daenerys, _he thought, _I am so sorry. What have I done with this sorry life of mine? What else can I do now, except to eat, work and sleep in reliance on the Gods? What else can I do now, but to take my good and bad days, and hope to die well? _

A gentle breeze picked up, tickling the whiskers around his lips. But that, of course, was no answer from her. 

_What shall I do now? _

After some hard searching, he found Arya with Ser Davos in the foyer of the great hall--seeming to have waited for him, for her arms were crossed and the knight's deep frown was visible below his beard. Samwell was nowhere to be seen. For having caused this, Jon dipped his head sheepishly. 

"Jon..." she sighed exasperatedly. "Should we expect more of this from you?" 

He could not answer, which surprised his little sister, but it was a response Ser Davos was quite used to. He took Jon by the arm, Arya flanked Jon's other side, and together they took the short walk to the Great Keep. Arya left them at his chambers on the second level, but Ser Davos remained.

"I will help you," he whispered. "If you want it." 

"I don't know yet," Jon replied wearily. "I may have to do this on my own." 

After serving two Kings and one Queen, he had seen enough to know what Jon meant. Ser Davos took the younger man’s hand into both of his palms and held his eyes, in a way Jon’s lord father never had. Understanding his sentiment, Jon nodded to him, just once. Then he entered his chambers, laid on his feather bed, and soon fell asleep. The end was near. He hoped to live out his final days in Winterfell. 

If he was lucky, he just might. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! I know that was looong. I feel as drained as Jon, but it was necessary to set the tone and do some foreshadowing. We're finally seeing Jon begin to make his way forward, and he will start to flourish through his love for Dany. 
> 
> In the next chapter: we'll see that Sam has been working on "A Song of Ice and Fire" and Jon's not happy about it. How will more letters be involved? Who will even want to hear his criticisms and harsh truths? We'll see!
> 
> Much love! See you next week. <3


	3. How Conveniently We Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *in the inner castles of Winterfell*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sick for a few weeks and now that I'm feeling better, I finally finished this chapter. Congrats to the cast, crew, pre and post-production teams for their Emmy win in the best drama series category. I'm glad D&D didn’t win at all. 
> 
> It’s a good time to mention a short Tumblr [thread](https://waterchimesbetweenrocks.tumblr.com/post/187759648587/a-few-anti-posts-ranted-about-the-daenerys) that’s a meta reading on GRRM’s Dany/Nissa Nissa/Messiah parallels, b/c it expresses exactly what I’m aiming at here. 
> 
> I, along with you all, have begun to see this canonverse dark!fic is not for the faint of heart, so thanks for reading, you brave souls. :)))) Much love. <3

vii.

_You are so beautiful. Stunning. _The thought passed through his mind, as his fingers weaved through thick strands of her silver-gold hair. He had torn open the corset that was built into her red gown and cupped her breast, and so her soft moan rose as she pressed her lips to his, and she squeezed her thighs together just once—hard—and he knew she needed him now._ How long has it been? How are you still mine?_

It felt like weeks had passed since he’d found out about his parentage from Samwell—months since he’d told her, and had grown cold, unable to place his desire, affection and loyalty to Queen Daenerys, when she was also his true father’s sister. 

Yet she did not seem to care that he was her nephew and that this should have been wrong. None at all, because her arousal, mixed with relief at having won the Battle for the Dawn, was loud and fragrant on Jon’s tongue. When he lifted her woolen skirt and trailed the back of his hand along the inside of her thigh, when he slid his fingers into her smallclothes and along her folds and found how wet she had become—she shook her head weakly, drawing her arm around his shoulders to pull him ever closer, pressing the soft flesh of her hips into his waiting hands, uncaring that his feather bed was but a dozen feet away.

“Daenerys,” he huffed, but she only shook her head again, needing more, needing it now. So, he slid two fingers into her flushed opening, and as his strokes went deep and he crooked his fingers against her front wall, her shaking turned into nodding. She buried her nose in his neck and he pressed his lips to her hairline, filling with quiet awe. Her hands brushed the broadness of his shoulders, scooped down his chest, felt for his hips and his ears perked at the catch in her breath, when she felt his hardness straining in his leather breaches. She cupped his length, and hissing, he tilted her head back to steal a kiss. As she smiled, her resigned whisper rose.

“You are not safe for me. But you are good.”

Unable to explain the sudden wave of panic that overcame him, his fingers stilled inside of her and he withdrew them. As if he had been caught, he turned his face away but her hands were already on his jaw, pulling him back to face her. He peeled his eyes open. Her violet irises glowed sharply in the festive night.

“I am not afraid of you, Jon. Neither am I afraid for you.”

“Even now?” He recalled the fateful dagger that was always hidden below his vest—how it had pierced her heart—how he’d left her to bleed out on the throne room floor, unable to face _Drogon’s_ wrath and wrong for it all. “Even after what I've done?”

She studied him for a long moment. Then she took his hand kissed her pleasure from his knuckles.

“Even now.”

“How—” Arousal waning, his breath hitched again. “Why?” 

“Because I love you. I will always love you.” Her voice was warm, like honey, inviting him to wrap an arm around her waist, as his other hand moved to close her corset for her. “Is that alright?”

“Yes, Dany. I love you. I need you.”

As he thumbed her delicate chin, her stare turned hard. “You lie. You have forgotten, but the dragons remember.”

He dipped his head in shame. She pressed her lips to his ear. 

“The fire is mine. It is also yours.”

He shook his head in disbelief. He saw _Rhaegal’s_ razor-sharp teeth glisten in the sunlight as his red eyes peered into Jon’s soul; he saw the happy dragon plucked out of the sky by a great arrow and heard his chirps turn into cries and then into nothingness as he was swallowed by the waves. A small sob rose and withered tears left Jon’s his eyes. Glowering at him now, Daenerys dug her fingers into his wrists. 

“Do not weep, Jon Snow. I will tell you only once more_._” She leaned into him, punctuating each High Valyrian syllable with her lips and teeth. “_Zaldrizes dohairios iksos daor.”_

Jon blinked his tears away. They seemed to turn into vapor, called away by the sheer heat of her. The fingers of one hand curled into her gown, holding on for dear life, as he searched his mind for the familiar phrase. He thought back on late Autumn days, of the Dragon Pit, of the haunted look in her eyes, and of a love that bloomed endlessly.

Breathless, he said, “A dragon is not a slave.”

“That's right,” she approved. “Hold fast to your faith, Jon. The Dead are already here.” 

His eyes widened—and then suddenly—

The orange-red glow of the hearth, the muffled quiet of the lord’s chambers and her finite grip—they had all been torn away and replaced with the dark, the vicious, the cold. A storm had come upon him—or perhaps he had entered the storm—but he was in the air, on _Rhaegal’s_ back, and as an expert dragonrider, Daenerys was already far before him on _Drogon’s _back, close to nipping _Viserion’s_ undead tail and unseating the Night’s King from his prize. 

Yet victory seemed far off. Vain hope mixed with fear and pain, and bubbled up from Jon’s lips in a cry.

“Dany!”

The Night’s King had thrown them off. They could not find him. He cried again.

“DANY!”

But she could not hear him. So, he and _Rhaegal_ followed her upward, where the wind seemed to wish to take them, past the thick of the storm. They breached the clouds and entered the quiet at the foot of the heavens, where the stars never stopped shining. She and _Drogon_ were a league away. _Rhaegal_ pushed his leathery wings hard to join her. But it was too late. They would not reach her.

Jon would not reach her. 

viii. 

At that moment, he woke with a racing heart and dry eyes. He thumbed his cheeks with shaking hands, but the tears had already dried. 

Night had finally descended on Winterfell—late enough, apparently, that the fire in the hearth had gone out. His rooms were frigid, but the utterly familiar warmth of Daenerys's acceptance was fresh on his mind, an aftertaste of freedom and exchange that would not fade. So, he stayed in bed and rolled his tongue along his teeth, tasting every grain that has been spoiled by violence and pain. 

That they rose along with his affections from the same hole, deep within his heart, was shameful. They did not belong together, forming an image so obscene and wrong that it threw Jon onto his side, and his body strained at the weight of his bottomless offense.

_What have I done?_ He could not find redemption on his own. _Help. I need help. Please. _He pressed his hands together and bowed his head, entreating the Gods of his soul to forgive and heal him._ I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!_

He had been so wrong. He could not choose. He could not make his own rules. He could not bow to any man or woman in truth, not without acknowledging those who purposed triumph and disaster; not without praising those who reserved deliverance from their own hands and no one else’s. He needed them to show him the way—the right way—otherwise destruction was his end and this was only the beginning of it.

_It did not end with the Night’s King,_ he realized, recalling Daenerys's words from the dream_. My spirit perishes in the shallows of my wrongdoing. It is lifeless, it is dead, it knows nothing of all that is good, I am nothing! The Dead are here. The Dead remain! I don't even know what to pray for, nor how! We need you. Please! Send your divine spirit, Gods! Save our souls. _

_Save our souls. _

_Save our souls._

Sometime later, he woke to great thirst and an aching heart. He was hanging halfway off the bed, his eyes were crusted with tears, the corners of his lips were crusted with spittle, and his body was as sore as if he’d just come from battle. Groanings too deep for words had awoken in him and made Jon Snow a wrecked shell of a man, as withered and new to their broken world as the day he’d been born. 

For all the promises his lady mother had asked Eddard Stark to keep, how ashamed she’d have been with what her son had done. How furious Rhaegar Targaryen would have been at his son disgracing his only sister. The realization tilted something deep within him and he give a pregnant pause. 

Shame remained, he continued to seek forgiveness—yet it was if he was close to it, for things were somehow, miraculously different. Deep longing bloomed in his heart, something he had not felt since before the Battle for the Dawn and he’d turned cold toward Daenerys. Frozen to the bone by the cold and unable to move from his odd position on his bed, he was hyperaware of a trickle moving deep within his soul, as if he was being carried along, pushed along, buoyed by the bubbling stream of life itself. 

He struggled to work his way into a seated position, then gazed into the early morning sunlight that filtered through the nearby windowpane, frowning doubtfully. Like the men he’d observed in Winterfell’s armory days ago, Jon had no goodness or integrity in him—nothing majestic, nothing divine, nothing _holy. _

_Who, then, have I honored to receive such a gift? _

The feeling... Was it wisdom? Was it understanding? Or the steady calming of his writhing soul? 

He threw off the bed furs and moved to his feet. The unhealed knife wounds along his torso were painfully evident. Placing his fingers along the open crescents, memories arose of the grief in Daenerys’s wet gaze, when time and again, she had strained to communicate how good he was for her. _Not safe. But good. _Wondering if he would ever see a day without tears, he went to the dead hearth and started a low fire. After tossing in a final log, within moments the flames billowed, emitting a searing heat that months ago would have sent him back a few feet. But not now. Not anymore.

The crackling began to sing and Jon felt the sense of majesty increase, fanning out from his chest to the edges of his skin. Speechless, he stared into the flames when they began to form and shape into the familiar. He saw a throne room. But it was not that of the Red Keep. It glimmered like the sun, reflecting the stream of life weaving through his soul: a sanctuary emitting glory. There, he found forgiveness. There, he found peace. His soul quieted some more. So, when the flames spoke, Jon heard. 

_Jon Snow, man much loved_. 

His heart seized and his lips would not move. _I am loved? By whom? _

_By the god who put the fire in you,_ came the Voice, brimming with power and fury. _I have always been with you. I will always be with you. _

_My Lord! _he cried in fear and sudden recognition_. R’hllor, Lord of Light! You love me? _

_Yes, _the Voice said_. You were reborn as an adopted son of mine, by the same flames that bore you, in my name. You have been righteous and followed my ways. You have also transgressed and done what is abhorrent in my eyes. You have shamed and disgraced my warrior, the one I had promised to the world to heal it of its brokenness, for the sake of my glory. The realms of men have pierced Daenerys Targaryen with daggers and members of the flesh and denials of the authority I gave her, my fiery heart and beloved. You alone have taken all of heaven’s hope and returned it to the undeserving world. When you killed your savior, you ground my glory into the ground for the last time. _

A dry, shameful sob rose, but Jon could not look away. 

_For once and for all, she bore the remnants of my wrath that had not fled with the destruction of the evil one of Death. The spilling of her precious blood is fragrant to me and atones for all of man’s transgression that was and will be. It had long ago been foretold, in the prophecies surrounding the Blood Betrayal, but no man or woman knew my Word well enough to know what happened. Not even my earthly priests and priestesses know. _ _But it is finally done._

_Why would you do this for us? _Jon asked, bewildered. _Why would you take away your judgments against us and save our souls, when we are undeserving? _

_Because I love you. Understand me, my child. I do not love the world, but I love those who have always been mine. They will be warriors who go forth in my name, like my fiery heart and beloved. They will cleanse their souls in the furnace of her sacrifice; the sending of my Spirit will soften their hearts and fill them with the wisdom of what is right and good. Through those I love, I will redeem the world. _

Jon trembled before the hearth, feeling naked, meek and void. A knock sounded on the great door to his rooms and after a moment, Lord Davos’s voice asked if he was awake. It was time for the household to break their fast in the great hall. But there was no hunger in Jon. He only felt fear and awe because he was in the presence of the God of his soul, standing before his eternal throne. 

_My Lord! _Joncried, rising to his feet now._ I seek forgiveness when I still cannot forgive myself. Yet you give me this gift! I am not worthy! Daenerys Targaryen loved me! But we killed her! I have asked for them to take me so I can atone, but they will not! _

_It is alright, my child, for it is not about your deservingness, but hers. She did what she was supposed to do. Now you must do so, as well. _

Jon balked, not because the realms of men would surely shame and seek to kill him again, but because his longing for death and to be home ran as deep as that for Daenerys. He wanted to glorify his God. But most importantly, he needed to be with him. 

_My child, _the Voice soothed_, I am in your midst. You must guide others to this gift I have given you. The time has come for you to spread the message that salvation has come for all who declare my fiery heart and beloved as crucified by the hand of her friend, family and heavenly husband. Tell them she died to cover man’s transgressions, has taken away my judgments against you, and as high priestess, awaits to renew the broken world into your true home, that which is in me and with me in absolute fullness, where there will be no more pain or sorrow. _

Jon felt weak to the bone. He could not even think, but R'hllor knew his heart. 

_It is alright, _the Voice said_. My strength is made perfect in your weakness. I have put my fire in you. You will rise. _

The flames spat onto the outer floor of the hearth, raining purple-red embers that reminded Jon of dragonflame, as the doorknob jangled under Ser Davos’s palm. Jon shook at the weight of the majesty before, around and within him, completely undone. 

_Do not be afraid, now. Jon Snow, man much loved, I have sent my Spirit to you and will do so for all who seek refuge in my light. You do not know what to pray for, but I awaken your cries and groanings to search your heart. I know my will for you, so I pray for you, that your prayers in my Spirit may be answered. When you draw near to me, I draw near to you. I will always be yours. _

_My Lord! My God! _He felt like his hardened heart was tearing to shreds and being reborn into something soft and fleshy._ You have gifted me with your promises. I hope in your Word. I will wait for you. _Ser Davos was crushing his fist to the door now, calling his name more urgently, worrying so deeply for Jon--a paternal instinct he never lost, even after the death of his two sons. But Jon was no longer conflicted.He remembered who he was, now_. You are my deliverer! You are the God of my salvation! I am yours. _

_Yes,_ the Voice said_. I call upon you by name, my child. I am yours. And you are mine. _

As the flames erupted once more, billowing onto the outer floor of the hearth like crimson-gold wildfyre, Jon fell to his knees in reverence. The flames pulled themselves back into the hearth and suddenly died, small and unremarkable. Yet the warmth of a special love remained, resonating through his soul. 

Although Jon had been blinded by the sun, he managed to wash his hands and face in the nearby basin, to change into clothes decent enough for company, and then he pulled the great door open. Ser Davos entered his rooms, slightly panicked at the sounds he'd heard from the other side--all of it, so supernatural. Jon gave the knight a tired smile, before offering his arm, because he would need to be guided to the great hall. 

"What happened?" the other man asked, his salt and pepper beard twitching below his frown as he took Jon's shoulder. "And what is this for, Jon?" 

“I have an answer to your question, Ser Davos. To what you asked when I first returned to Winterfell. I need you to help me.”

He swallowed thickly. “With…what, my lord?”

Jon hobbled into the hallway and closed the great door behind him. The knight held fast to Jon’s shoulder down the winding steps of the Great Keep and into the courtyard. When they reached the cold morning light, Jon finally answered, “All of it. I’ll need help with all of it.”

“Then I will do that, lad.”

Jon dipped his head. “I won’t live for much longer, Ser.”

“Until the end, then.” He blinked rapidly, seeming like he wanted to pull the young man into a hard hug. “I’ve got you, Jon.”

“For some time, you didn’t.”

“I know,” he said immediately, regretfully. “I’m sorry.”

“I am, too.”

They entered the foyer of the great hall. Servers moved to and fro with drinks to add to tables that were already lined with dishes. The lords had already been seated, but Jon didn’t mind.

They took their seats, not at the great table with the rest of the House, because Jon had been stripped of all titles and lands, so they went to a table in the first row. Sluggishly, Jon prepared his plate and drink, and raised the food to his mouth numbly, dazed by the exquisiteness of being so fearfully made and remade, so profoundly and steadfastly loved. His eyes found Lady Stark at the helm of the great table, because she was already gazing at him sadly, disconcerted by his disheveled appearance. Jon wrinkled his nose at her then winked, earning a petulant poke of her tongue, quickly enough that no one else would see, though his little sister’s gaze remained solemn. No longer quite ashamed, but saddened, Jon turned away. The lords and advisors that made up the Stark household were mostly unfamiliar members of vassal Houses, but three seats down, he recognized House Stark’s interim maester.

Samwell avoided looking in his direction, which was just as well. Jon curled his palm along his fork and dug it into the aged table, splitting the grain as he channeled his fury into the wood. With a warning look, Ser Davos stilled his hand. But it was too late. Jon knew what to do next.

ix.

These days, Jon Snow was a ghost of who he'd been before the Last War. When he was a King, the realm was teetering into catastrophe, so he spent long days reviewing settled business, meeting with the lords to discuss rations and battle plans, and overseeing the execution of their relevant steps. There had barely been time to share stories with his brother and sisters, nor time to spend with his Queen anywhere she would have him. 

Now that he was no longer a King, however, Jon's days were shorter than they'd ever been.

King Bran had written up numbing itineraries, which Ser Davos continually volunteered to enforce in his helpful, non-confrontational way. He offered company and guidance to a life that was small and without agency. A miraculous gift. Most days, after breaking his fast with the rest of the household, he'd spend the afternoon sparring with men too young to know just what he'd done, while trying to avoid the swordmaster's steady glowers. Afterward, he would pray in the Godswood for hours, and once a week he and Ser Davos went for a ride, braving the plains northward or hunting southward in the Wolfswood. At first, Jon avoided the Library of the Tower to avoid Maester Tarly, but when he didn't find him there, soon he even took to reading and grew concerned about how the archmaesters of the Citadel would chronicle Westeros's recent years of war. 

Today, he was restless, but he refused to go for a ride because he had important matters to tend to soon, whether Bran liked it or not. So, he and Ser Davos strolled along the north-facing battlements, before taking a walk outside of the gates. Jon gazed at the well-trafficked, muddy ground, recalling the fortifications his and Daenerys's armies had built to repel the Army of the Dead. How beautiful she had looked as they surveyed what was his--and truly, all that was hers as Queen Paramount--a Winter beauty glowing sun-bright in the cold. The memory was so sweet, he didn't hear when Ser Davos called for him. _She is more real than you are, _he thought, recalling Aemon Targaryen's lamentation. Walking by her side still made him pleasurably nervous, and her smile bloomed as she whispered, _My handsome King. _After he returned to himself, Jonapologized to the knight, but he could not forget. _She is more real than you are._

Early afternoon came soon after, so Arya was on the second floor of the Great Keep, in the lord's study, when he arrived. She glowered at him for interrupting her writing—something long and important, it seemed—and Jon dipped his head apologetically, before diving in to get it over with quickly. 

"Sam must leave," he said without preamble. "We have to find someone else to be our maester." 

"How rude of you!" she snapped. "What do you think you're doing? You don't _have _any say, Jon!"

He huffed. "I do everything Bran demands of me. I avoid household meetings and I don't correspond with our vassals. I am isolated and without friendship or leadership, a fitting punishment for what I've done, I know! But the world has moved on in the wrong direction."

"Jon," she sighed. "I will never blame you for what happened. But you're being stupid! We have come far since the Last War and we've room to grow! Look around!" She gestured wildly to the overflowing mess of official documents on her desk. "We can't just _find_ another maester these days. Men and women of every designation are hard to find! We are doing what we can with who's left."

He accepted that and bowed his head apologetically. 

"Aye, everyone is gone. Yet Bran and his Small Council sit in the Red Keep as if they had not arrived with hell nipping at their heels! Meanwhile, the archmaesters know dragons lived but they never bore witness to the Dead. What will the children do, who will they be, if they don't know what happened?"

She did not agree with a word he said. "The wars since King Robert are not about the Dead, Jon! It's about what the Great Houses lost! It's about those, highborn and lowborn, who were crushed by Cersei and Daenerys!" 

His heart lurched at the sound of her name. Reminders of their wrongdoings rose and his yearning for their souls to be saved returned with a sudden strike. He worked his throat as wetness formed in his eyes, a sensation so familiar to the former King, now, who struggled to compose himself as mournful tears rolled down his face. After waiting for long moments, Arya crossed her arms at her chest. 

"Your queen would have burned the realm to the ground. You should never forget that, Jon."

"No," he refused, meeting her eyes. "Between one queen and the other, Daenerys was better for the realm. When we chose Bran, we chose wrong, and that is why you miss the point! _We _are the Dead! If our spirits weren't so lifeless, the Night's King would not have been able to turn us!" Arya suddenly frowned. "But not understanding this is not what concerns me the most." 

Nonplussed, she gestured for him to continue.

"Sam will inform the archmaesters of what he think happened. I know the stories he'll feel he must tell. But he’s wrong." He blinked at her. "What is it?" 

"I will not hear a word from you about Samwell Tarly," said the interim Lady of Winterfell. "You two are enemies now. Because you know him so well, there is nothing you can say that won't be colored by his—"

_"Betrayal," _Jon supplied. "Say it, please, little sister. When he betrayed Daenerys for me, he betrayed me."

"Why would you say that? He still—he still doesn't understand—"

"Because she was greater than me!" he said, thinking of the conversations Samwell must have had with Arya and others. Their confusion was so great it plumed over Winterfell and hid their souls from the Gods' sight. "When she increased, I decreased! I had to, so that we could live! But you don't want to live. Not really. When Sam betrayed the Crown, he betrayed the realm. He is not alone in that." 

Arya studied her brother for a long moment. Then she rounded the desk and leaned on the edge. Brow raised, she asked, "And what of Daenerys's wrongs? She terrified Essos and aimed to lay waste to Westeros. Were we supposed to let her rule without restraint?" 

"Perhaps! Who were we to enforce restraint on her, when our own government was and is still weak with nobles who care not for the commonfolk, when millions of those in bondage across Essos bore witness to the truth that Daenerys knew better and hoped in her? Who do you think gave her that authority? Did you even know of her plans? She had so many." His tears had dried, once again, and his mind was churning now, trying to figure out how to communicate the truth to his sister. "Given my view from the Wall, I will tell you why I think the wars happened after King Robert died. I will tell you why we don't want to live." 

That is when a hesitant knock sounded on the great door. Her eyes flitted over, before returning to Jon's. He felt suspicious and weary, because she was as cool and still as the Shivering Sea, not normally skittish at all. Jon didn’t want to see anyone, least of all who he guessed was on the other side. 

"It's Sam," she informed him, before ordering her guest to enter. "You're too late, Jon. Whatever it is, your story doesn't match the official one. You should read it." 

As the door creaked open and hesitant footsteps fell on the stone floor, Jon eyed the approach of Samwell's shadow, and Arya went to a large bookshelf on the east wall. Sam stopped at Jon's left, with his hands behind his back, eyes ahead and to the left, gazing at the lady and through the line of windows; gazing at everywhere but Jon, who took the chance to take in his appearance. Tan maester's robes, four links around his neck, chestnut hair handsomely cut short at the sides, but his expression was drawn and uncertain. 

Feeling his gaze, he greeted, "My lord," and then asked Arya, "My lady, forgive me for the interruption. Would you like me to stay?" 

"Yes," she answered, after plucking a large book from the fourth shelf, and turned to both men. "I wanted to discuss this with you. And it seems Jon would like to, as well." 

"He's not...allowed—"

"Tell the King all you'd like." 

"I didn't say I would." 

She raised a brow. He dipped his head in acquiescence. She rounded the desk again and placed the book on the table as she took her seat. Gazing at it, she sighed, "He'll know soon enough, anyway." 

If there was any hint of displeasure with Bran Stark's rule, Jon knew that was the only bit he would get from Arya. With those greenseeing eyes of his and his detached way, how could the King's disaffection not rise as the years bore on? _Maybe they will see, _Jon hoped. _Maybe. _Meanwhile, he wondered what other restrictions he'd receive in Winterfell, that would have been placed on him in the Night's Watch. It remained that he had no official say in the governing of the Six Kingdoms. But this was new. Could he not even read the newest books? As Arya flipped to the first page, Jon frowned at it. 

Blooming in red, gold, green and blue, it read, _A Song of Ice and Fire._

"What is this?" 

She turned to the next page and pointed to the secondary title. 

_The chronicles of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros after the death of King Robert I, by Archmaester Ebrose. _

Jon deflated. She was right. He was too late. 

"Old Archmaester Ebrose writes with a dry voice," she said. "Thankfully, Maester Tarly helped him with the title. People will at least open it up." 

They both turned to Sam, who blushed at their attention. Arya was expectant. Jon was bristling. He cleared his throat, then stepped forward to ask for the massive book. It had to be at least two thousand pages. She passed it to his hands, and Jon stepped forward in time to see the first spread Sam opened to. He did not like what he saw. 

"How many copies are there?" he asked after long moments. "Who has them?" 

"Well, for starters," she sighed restlessly, "you can take mine for as long as you need. Aside from Samwell's, this the only copy in the Kingdom of the North. The lords of the Great Houses each have a copy, as well as their maesters and all members of the King's Small Council. The archmaesters are working on the second edition as we speak." 

Jon knew where he'd been when all of this was happening. Still, his mind couldn't keep up. He eyed the book. "I... Thank you, Arya." 

She didn't reply.

"What did you think, Lady Arya?" 

"Well, as I said, it was very dry, but it was quite factual. Lord Tyrion's not mentioned once, which I found odd, considering how Joffrey died and the trial that followed." 

Jon shook his head. _After Tyrion Lannister killed his father and escaped to a foreign land, Daenerys Targaryen released him from bondage and took him into her care_. _He'd been a sloppy, unhelpful Hand of the Queen. Then when she finally managed to kill his brother and sister, which she had long ago swore to do, __he threw his pin down the steps of the north gate of the Red Keep and convinced Jon Snow to kill her. _Why was it not in the book, as such? _What good will omission do for the Kingdoms? _

"Ah!" said Sam. "I will take note of that for the second edition." 

"Indeed. The Great Houses are not in a good light, but we'd expected that. Jon, you're in there quite a bit. Daenerys...overshadows everything. When it ends with her death, it seems quite fitting. As soon as it happens, you can feel the first breath of peace that hits Westeros." 

Jon closed his eyes and huffed. 

"And...as a history book, my lady?" 

She sighed. "It is necessary reading. It has some holes, but it is true. And it is painful. I don't think I'll ever read it again." 

Jon found his voice. "Not even to the children?" 

"What children?" she returned boldly. 

Jon chose not to respond. Sam looked between them, sensing the tension and what was unspoken. Arya sat back in her great chair and gestured to Jon.

"So go on, brother. Tell us why you think the wars happened after King Robert's death. Tell us why we don't want to live." Sam started, hard, while Arya paused. "Better yet, tell us what Daenerys had planned. Sansa and I would love to know what a queen who would burn a city to the ground wanted to do for the realm." 

He winced at her derision, because her tone painfully reminded him of the mutiny on the Wall. The signs had been there. His critics left the hall with their men, he had to wrestle Ghost into his cage, and then he ran to the wail of one in mortal danger. He should have known it was a ruse! Oh—how they had pierced him in a moment of glory and two years later he pierced Daenerys at hers! Was Jon a sheep surrounded by wolves, then? Had Daenerys been a... Had Daenerys been _the _shepherd? 

He closed his eyes as a familiar tune rose in his heart. It was Daenerys's song, the Valyrian hymn she'd sung in the wilderness on the search for freedom._ In the Red Waste._ _On the plains of the Lhazareen. In the Lands of Always Winter._ Jon squared his jaw as a sob dared to rise. _In the Black Cells of the Red Keep. _Her love was so full. How could he ever think to separate his heart from hers? _We could stay a thousand years, _she'd said. _I will always love you. _He dragged a knuckle along his hairline._My strength is made perfect in your weakness, _R'hllor had said. _I call upon you by name, my child._

"Jon?" 

_I am yours. And you are mine. _

He bit his lip to keep a tear from falling and turned his face away. He would listen to his critics no longer. 

"It is not for your ears," he finally replied. "You won't believe and you won't understand, so you won't know. But I will tell those who believe. I long for them because they long for all that's good." 

"All that is good...?" Arya was confused. "What are you talking about? How are you even certain of this?" 

_She was my warrior, my fiery heart and beloved, who died for you._

"I have faith."

_Tell them I sent you. Tell them salvation has come._

"I must go, now. Thank you again, Arya, for letting me read this." She nodded uncertainly as he took the book. Then he turned to the maester and his former friend. "Sam." 

They were silent when he took his leave. Within moments he exited the Great Keep, entered the Spring cold and turned his face to the sky. His life was imprisoned. But perhaps he was free. If that was the case, he would need to gather freedom daily, like the earth does of the dew from the heavens, otherwise it would rot like stagnant water. 

_Because I love you. _

Jon nodded to himself and thanked the God of his soul for healing him. His destination did not change, but his heart did. If it was his Lord's will, the same would happen for others. They would know. 

Soon, they would know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things that must be said after each chapter...
> 
> I'm walking a tight line here. (I have walked it with all of my fics.) Given what I have published here--we in the community don't flinch at unrighteousness and some delight in unrighteousness for their very personal reasons--I did not want to post this work. We all have our walk. I'm here to send virtual hugs with my words. But as I prayed, God has encouraged me to keep expressing what I understand of his merciful, sovereign, righteous disposition.
> 
> The more years that pass the more I consider where GRRM's biblical themes will go (and will have gone) towards the end of ASOIAF books. Meanwhile, D&D honestly steered the show through antichrist agendas and into antichrist conclusions. I'm calling bullshit, so, you can think of this post-series fic as a not-quite Christian fantasy. 
> 
> All that said, here are the much-loved scripture verses and chapters that wormed their way into this chapter:  
Zechariah 8 / Zeppeniah 3 / Psalm 131 / Zechariah 10 / John 14 / Romans 8:11-23 / Psalm 24 / 1 Corinthians 5
> 
> EDIT June 2020: I'm making my way back to this fic. <3


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